


(Goat) Milk and Honey

by allonsys_girl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bees, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Retirementlock, Sussex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 08:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2302973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John in Sussex, with bees. And a goat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Goat) Milk and Honey

They move out of Baker Street on a Saturday afternoon in September. It's unseasonably warm, and John's red-faced and sweating by the time they've filled half the rented van. 

"I told you we should have hired movers, John." Sherlock sulks, smoking, against the sun-hot door of the van. He looks up at the windows of 221b. In them he can see himself and John, younger and fitter, the men they used to be. 

"It's - fine." John pants, heaving a trunk packed with books into the van and flopping down next to it. "Movers are expensive. We don't have Mycroft to foot the bills anymore."

Sherlock swallows hard and sucks on his cigarette. Turns his face away from John. 

"I'm sorry, love. I wasn't thinking. I shouldn't have said that." John gets up, leans against Sherlock's side and bumps him with his hip. "Hey. Aren't you going to call me a git or an unfeeling bastard or something?"

A million mornings of takeaway coffees from Speedy's. John pressing Sherlock up against the flowered wallpaper, warm hands under his shirt. Mrs Hudson over for Christmas dinner, the three of them sharing pudding and hot toddies in front of the fireplace. Greg stomping up the steps with a case at all hours of the day and night. John reaching into the bedside drawer to get two small black jewelry boxes, his stomach muscles twisting under Sherlock's hands. _I just thought we could make it official...if you want to._

"Our whole lives, John. Our whole lives have been here." Sherlock's mouth twitches involuntarily, his eyes burning. 

"I know. I know, love." John's voice full of sympathy. He kisses Sherlock's shoulder through his shirt, and looks up at him with wide blue eyes. 

Sherlock whispers, "John, I don't want to leave."

"I don't either." John runs his fingers through silver blonde hair - mostly silver now, though he won't admit it - and pinches his lips together. "Mrs Hudson's niece didn't really leave us a say in the matter."

"Wretched woman." Sherlock spits out, his voice venomous. 

"In all fairness, Sherlock, she had no connection to us. She inherited a house that could make her an enormous amount of money in rent - rent we can't possibly afford. We practically lived here for free."

"Because Mrs Hudson had a _soul_ , unlike her demon niece."

John laughs that beautiful full chuckle that he has, the deep laugh lines around his eyes crinkling. "No. Because Mrs Hudson loved us. And we loved her. But she's gone, and her niece didn't owe us anything. We were just tenants to her. Tenants who paid a quarter of what the flat is worth."

Sherlock tosses his cigarette, and it hits the front door in a shower of orange sparks.

"Do you need help with the books?" 

"A hand would be lovely, husband, thank you." John kisses his cheek with hot lips and smacks him affectionately on the behind. "You'll want me undamaged tonight so we can break in our new bed."

***

The cottage is in Seaford, presiding at the top of a sweeping chalk cliff above Seaford Bay. It's whitewashed and has a thatched roof and Sherlock hates it on sight. 

"I hate it, John."

"For fuck's sake, Sherlock, we're not even inside yet."   

"It's so -- _English_." It feels like something out of a film, or a television show meant for Americans. It feels too clean, too perfect. Sherlock thinks of the soot on the doorknob of 221b, the dirt streaked windows, the chipping paint. He wants to go home.

"Well, so are we. So it's appropriate." John's reached his daily limit with Sherlock's strops. "Now help me find the box with the kettle and tea and biscuits in it, so we can at least eat before we collapse."

Inside is less perfect, a bit shabby and worn. The floorboards have splinters, and the kitchen door doesn't close all the way. The kitchen is a relic, a mint green Rayburn oven and a white enamel ice box alongside butcher block counters stained with half a century of overflowing bowls and scalding pot bottoms. Sherlock has an immediate image of John bare chested in his dressing gown making breakfast, his bare feet slapping gently against the cracked linoleum floor.  Something tight unfurls in Sherlock's chest. 

John's arm slips round his waist. "You love it."

"Shut up." Sherlock murmurs without heat. 

They share a package of orange and milk chocolate HobNobs and sip strong tea. John kisses Sherlock with chocolate on his mouth as the sun sets orange in a purple streaked sky.

***

John reads all day and makes long phone calls to Greg. Sherlock hunts for fossils on the beach and goes through a box of magazines about animal husbandry they find in the shed. They make love every night, as they haven't done in years. John cooks them eggs and toast in the mornings, potatoes and meat in the evenings. They both gain weight. 

Sherlock drives their secondhand Vauxhall Astra into town once a week to go to the market. One week he comes home with chickens. John laughs and kisses his cheek, and builds a coop the next day. After that, they have eggs. When he brings home the goat - _John, they were going to slaughter her_ \- John sighs and closes his eyes, resigned and fond. After that, they have milk. Sherlock learns to make soap, and cheese. 

The day Sherlock brings home the bees, John shakes his head and tries to glare at Sherlock over the top of his half moon reading glasses, but he can't quite manage it. 

"Bees, Sherlock? Really?"

"Aren't they beautiful? There's hive kits in the car. I'll get your toolbox." 

John grabs Sherlock's wrist as he walks by, pulls him into an embrace and gazes up at him. "You. You, husband, are as giddy as a schoolboy. It's rather irresistible, you know."

"Sex later, John. Hives now." Sherlock kisses the end of John's nose and whirls away. "Toolbox."

"Yes, love. Whatever you say." John tucks his glasses on the top of his head and rolls up his sleeves. "Hives."

***

The hives go by the cliff edge. Sherlock plants clover and buckwheat, goldenrod and wild strawberries. 

"What about now, Sherlock?" John asks mildly one day, as they stand side by side in the kitchen, pouring honey into jars. 

"Now, what, John?"

"Are our lives here now? Does it feel like home yet?" John's eyes are dancing with amusement, but there's a genuine concern in the depths of those complicated denim blue irises. 

Sherlock nods, and sets down the jar he's been filling. He threads his sticky fingers through John's. "Yes. Yes, this is home."

"Good." John picks up their entwined hands and kisses the honey off of them. "I never thought I'd be married to a farmer, you know."

Sherlock laughs loud and long. "I never thought I'd be one."

"Mrs Hudson would get a kick out of seeing us like this."

"Yes. Yes, she would."

***

_Mrs Hudson's Sussex Honey_  
 _Organic. Local. Pure._  
 _Harvested with care by J. Watson and S. Holmes_

"I still don't understand why my name is first. I barely have anything to do with it." 

"You have absolutely _everything_ to do with it, John."

They share a long look, the kind that only couples who have been together forever can share, the kind that communicate everything without making a sound. 

"Excuse me, how much is the honey?" An apple cheeked young mother with a chunky toddler smiles down at them.

"Two pounds a jar." 

"Oh, that's lovely. I'll take two." She digs in her purse for coins, and sets them in John's outstretched hand. "Who's Mrs Hudson, by the way?"

Sherlock smiles and takes a deep breath. "How long do you have?"


End file.
